


Intimacy Issues

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Practice makes perfect...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimacy Issues

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Вопросы близости](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529436) by [Bathilda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda)



> Many thanks to Beth H for her beta.
> 
> Thrilled to bits that the story has been translated into Russian - for which, many thanks!

INTIMACY ISSUES

 

The flat felt positively balmy when compared to the temperature outside, but Lestrade switched up the heating anyway, before guiding Mycroft through his bedroom to the large bathroom. "Clean towels are in there," he said, pointing to the airing cupboard.

"Keep the blackout blind down," said David from behind them, as he made a far from cursory second check.

Lestrade nodded, taking his point; the bathroom was the only room with a window that faced on to the road.

Mycroft fumbled in a pocket and produced his BlackBerry, which was vibrating. "Excuse me, I must take this," he told Lestrade. "Holmes." He paused on his way out of the bathroom. "You're positive? Then I see no alternative." 

He was walking away as he called another number and Lestrade just heard him say, "Holmes. We have a go. Good hunting.

"Gregory, would you mind leaving the room?" he added, in the same crisp voice, before he said a name Lestrade didn't catch as he voice-dialled another number.

Lestrade closed the bedroom door behind him and went into the kitchen, trying not to speculate what might be happening. From David and Mycroft's grim expressions it was unlikely to be anything good. He busied himself making a Moroccan-influenced soup, which he knew from experience took little time to prepare and whose ingredients could be varied depending on the state of his supplies. As he opened a can of chickpeas, it occurred to him that Mycroft was his first real visitor in the months he'd lived here - his Chief Superintendent certainly didn't count and he'd never met Mycroft's manservant.

Manservant... It was like something out of Jeeves and Wooster, except Len was real and Mycroft was real. Lestrade paused, knife in hand. What the hell did he and Mycroft have in common? Posh totty and his bit of rough? He'd like more but if that was all that was on offer he wasn't going to turn it down.

He was adding cumin when, from behind him, Mycroft said: "My apologies."

"Not necessary," said Lestrade easily. "Go shower and change, you're turning blue around the edges. If you need clean underwear and socks, you'll find plenty in the chest of drawers. Annie's sweaters are in the chest."

Mycroft nodded his thanks. He was unpeeling himself from his soggy jacket as he headed back to the bathroom, the task hampered by his grip on his BlackBerry.

"Have you eaten?" Lestrade asked David, with some resignation when the other man continued to hover.

"Yes, thanks. Unlike Mr Holmes, I only started work a couple of hours ago. Um, I'll leave these on the table."

Lestrade paused in adding the apples he had chopped. He gave the Glock a look of wary distaste, before he noticed the small device beside it.

"Is that a panic button?"

"Mr Holmes prefers to call it a pager. But yes, it is. If anything at all bothers you, press this and I'll be here. It's a precaution only," David added placidly.

"Then you'd best have this - as a precaution." Lestrade fished for the spare key in the fruit bowl and tossed it over to him.

When David still lingered, Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "What now?"

"Um, nothing," said David hastily.

"Bollocks. What?"

David seemed to come to a decision. "He's a good bloke."

Lestrade stared at him in disbelief.

"I'll be off then," David added, looking faintly embarrassed.

Lestrade was still wearing a reluctant grin as he closed the front door behind David, who was clearly yet to be convinced that he was to be trusted with Mycroft. When he heard the sound of the power shower, proof that Mycroft really was here, he whistled contentedly as he prepared and chopped peppers and a chilli.

After fifteen minutes or so, the soup was almost ready. Lestrade added the baby-leaf spinach, blitzed the soup into an aromatic sludge, checked the seasoning one last time and left it on the lowest heat to keep warm. 

He turned from rinsing the blender to see Mycroft standing behind him. Now devoid of ginger stubble, Mycroft was wearing a pair of navy linen trousers that were obviously part of a suit, topped by one of the sweaters he had given Lestrade. Half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his long nose, his mouth down-turned, he looked severe, preoccupied and distractingly sexy.

Lestrade handed him a mug of tea. "Don't panic. I know better than to offer my tea. A selection of yours were included in the stuff sent here from the island. I never got round to getting rid of them."

"You weren't tempted to try any?" Propped against the front of the washing machine, Mycroft took an appreciative sip.

"Once was enough. Is everything all right?"

"Of course." The denial might have been more convincing if Mycroft hadn't been holding his phone in a death grip.

Because it was work related, Lestrade allowed the lie to pass unchallenged. "Good. I didn't think to ask before. Are you allergic to any food? And is there anything you loathe?"

"No allergies. I avoid puddings, cakes and biscuits for obvious reasons."

Lestrade blinked. "You're diabetic?"

"No, though I came close some years ago. Because..." Mycroft paused, grimaced, and added, "Addiction runs in our family. Mine is to nicotine - and sugar. Which somehow is less acceptable than heroin."

"Only to Sherlock. So no real dislikes?"

"I loathe Brussel sprouts, aniseed, offal and gin."

"What a disgusting combination. Are you ready to eat?"

"I should have known fruit would make an appearance." Mycroft gave a faint smile when he saw the cheese board, which also contained red grapes and pears.

"Consistency should be my middle name," joked Lestrade as he tipped a bag of clementines into a bowl and set them on the scrubbed pine table. He received a disconcertingly intent look from Mycroft.

"Yes. And you have no idea how rare a quality that is." The set of his shoulders looking more relaxed, Mycroft carried the bowls filled with the spicy soup, while Lestrade brought through the Naan bread, which had been warming in the oven.

"If you don't like it, don't eat it. After years of cooking for Julia, I have no illusions about my culinary skills," said Lestrade cheerfully, as they sat opposite one another.

Mycroft shot Lestrade another look that he wasn't sure how to interpret but he said only, "You made this?"

"It isn't complicated. And it's quick." That it was also relatively cheap was something Lestrade kept to himself.

"It's delicious," said Mycroft. The alacrity with which he accepted the offer of a refill gave conviction to what might otherwise have been an unconvincing narrative.

A little colour returned to Mycroft's face as he ate. His hair had dried by now; untrammelled by product and longer than Lestrade had seen it before, it had fluffed out, giving him the slightly manic look of the mad scientists portrayed in the Beano and Dandy comics of Lestrade's youth.

"I miss the avocado suite in the bathroom." Mycroft ignored the cheese and helped himself to some grapes.

"You could always install one. There's nothing like coming home so tired you feel faintly nauseous and walking in to see that bilious shade of green," mumbled Lestrade, who was in danger of losing his train of thought.

A strand of red grapes hung from where it was draped between Mycroft's long fingers. Lestrade concentrated on peeling a clementine, giving the simple task more attention than it deserved because it was that or leaning across to feed from Mycroft's hand, before he sucked one of those long fingers into his mouth.

While Mycroft set out to be an entertaining guest, it was a mechanical performance and his smile was nothing more than a grimace which moved the muscles of his lower face. Every so often his gaze slid to where his BlackBerry sat on the table top, waiting for the call which never came.

"I can't offer you anything alcoholic," apologised Lestrade.

"You don't drink?"

"When I'm on holiday. Otherwise, not often. I never know when I'm going to be called out - the last thing the public needs is to smell booze on the investigating officer's breath and nothing completely masks the smell. You?"

"Rarely, and for the same reason. Difficult decisions are best made sober. I sometimes allow myself a small brandy."

"To celebrate?"

Mycroft's mouth twisted. "Rather the opposite."

While his manner was courtesy itself, Lestrade couldn't shake off the feeling that Mycroft would rather be alone. It wasn't what he had hoped for but he understood how work could subsume everything else - even lust. And at least Mycroft was still here. That had to count for something.

"Would you like some time to yourself?" Lestrade asked. "Don't worry about needing to be tactful. I'm used to Sherlock."

"Yes. For the moment. I need to think," added Mycroft.

"Take the bedroom. Make yourself comfortable. I hope whatever it is goes well." Lestrade belatedly realised he was talking to himself. Mycroft's phone had twitched on the table top and he had grabbed it and was already halfway across the large room.

"Holmes. Leave him. Pursue. That was a direct order. Leave him and pursue."

As he headed into Lestrade's room he had already called another number and was snapping out a set of what sounded like coordinates.

Lestrade cleared the table and washed up, while trying not to speculate about what he had heard. When Mycroft failed to reappear, Lestrade caught up on some 'paperwork' on his laptop. That done, he ironed a week's supply of clean shirts, not that he could claim they looked much better when he had finished. Because the flat was already cleanish he made a couple more batches of soup for the freezer. He was often in late and takeaways were an expensive luxury while his finances were recovering from paying for the new bathroom.

A combination of curiosity and the need to pee finally took Lestrade into his room. As he had hoped, Mycroft had fallen asleep on his bed, the BlackBerry in one lax hand. Propped crookedly against banked pillows, he didn't look particularly comfortable but it had to be better than nothing.

Wary of disturbing him, Lestrade used the facilities, then hovered once he had left the bathroom, taking the rare opportunity to study the unguarded face. There were new lines in the months since he had last seen Mycroft and even sleep hadn't dispelled the tension on his face. Disturbed by the vulnerability of the sleeper - or his own reaction to him - and feeling like a voyeur, Lestrade was on his way out when Mycroft stirred awake.

"Gregory? Good Lord, I do apologise. I seem to have appropriated your bed." Mycroft clearly intended no double meaning as he got to his feet.

"No problem. You look as if you could use some more sleep."

"I've had - Gracious, nearly four hours. I rarely get more than five every twenty four hours," Mycroft added matter of factly, just before his BlackBerry vibrated. With an apologetic gesture he said, "I must take this."

"Of course." Lestrade gave a small sigh as he headed out of the room again, given an unwanted insight into Julia's frustration with his insistence on taking every call, even in the early days of their marriage.

The indistinct murmur of voices suggested that Mycroft was taking a conference call - and not in English. Not in any of the common European languages either. Lestrade looked around for some distraction from the temptation to eavesdrop and ended up watching back-to-back reruns of QI, even if he couldn't have told anyone what he'd been watching.

Just after eight, he closed the laptop and went back into the kitchen to prepare a simple meal.

Mycroft strolled in just as Lestrade was warming the omelette pan.

"Good timing," said Lestrade.

"I can only apologise for over-staying my welcome. I should go."

Heartened by the use of 'should', Lestrade turned back to him. "Do you need facilities you don't have here?"

His head slightly tilted, Mycroft shook his head.

"Then stay. Mushroom omelette?"

"It sounds delicious. You're very generous," Mycroft added abruptly.

"No, it's just - what's that phrase? - enlightened self-interest."

While Mycroft's smile was faint, it was the genuine, unforced article before he leant forward and kissed Lestrade lightly on the corner of his mouth.

"Very generous," he repeated.

"Set the table before your damn phone goes again," commanded Lestrade gruffly, but he allowed himself the luxury of touching Mycroft briefly on the forearm, bared where he had pushed back the sleeves of his sweater.

Inevitably the phone rang halfway through the meal.

Lestrade grabbed his plate and went into his bedroom, as Mycroft began to speak fast in a language that sounded like Farsi.

 

Woken by a thud and muffled expletive, Lestrade shot up in bed. "I hope that's you and not an inept burglar," he said, as he flicked on the bedside lamp.

They squinted at each other, until their eyes grew accustomed to the light. Mycroft was standing on one leg, massaging a bare foot.

"I misjudged the distance between the chest and the door," he said.

"You've had good news," recognised Lestrade.

"So much for my poker face. Yes." added Mycroft simply.

"You'd best come to bed then," said Lestrade in a matter of fact voice, his heart beginning to thump.

He wouldn't have credited that someone so seemingly languid could undress so quickly - to the point where Lestrade's only impression was a pale blur of long limbs and a flash of distinctly ginger pubic hair.

Mycroft slid under the duvet, brushed against Lestrade and frowned. "Far be it for me to complain, but why are you wearing your jeans in bed?"

Lestrade rubbed his already dishevelled hair. "Ah. I didn't want to look as if... I didn't... That is, I thought the sight of me naked might shock you."

Mycroft stared at him in disbelief. "You must have a very odd idea about me."

"That smirk isn't exactly conducive to romance," Lestrade pointed out, already fumbling with the catch of his 501s.

Mycroft gently brushed away his hands. "What time is it?"

"Why, do you turn into a pumpkin?" asked Lestrade with a forgivable trace of acid. "It's ten past eleven."

"Then it's still my birthday. And - with your permission - I should like to unwrap my present myself."

Lestrade struggled for nonchalance as he absorbed Mycroft's meaning. "Um. You should know that the present is a bit on the shabby side," he warned, trying not to fidget, or to suck in his stomach.

Mycroft shook his head, his expression one of indulgent affection. "You have no idea, do you," he murmured. He deftly unfastened the catch and buttons of Lestrade's jeans, before spreading his large hand over Lestrade's lower belly, stroking the crooked line of hair with the side of his thumb.

"I'm a bit out of practice," said Lestrade in a tight, unfamiliar voice.

Mycroft looked up, recognised Lestrade's nervousness and let his preconceptions slide away.

"I'm making unwarranted assumptions," he said, withdrawing a little.

Lestrade caught hold of his shoulder. "No, you're not. It's just... Apart from receiving a couple of blow jobs in the summer I'm really out of practice. Fifteen years out."

"Is that all? It's like riding a bike."

"I must've forgotten more than I thought." But Lestrade was smiling now. "Sorry, I'm being a complete dick. Put it down to first night nerves. I thought you were supposed to be the inept one."

"As did I. We're obviously doomed," added Mycroft in the same sober voice, but his twitching mouth and smiling eyes betrayed him. "I'm emotionally inept while you're - still dressed."

"Oh, good save," said Lestrade. But he cooperated as he was stripped, nuzzling the bare portions of Mycroft which came within reach.

Then Mycroft sought out Lestrade's mouth, taking it slow, savouring him because this was Gregory and nothing about this was casual, however much he might wish to pretend otherwise.

After some time Mycroft drew back slightly. They were both breathing faster than normal.

"All right?" asked Mycroft, as if Lestrade's erection wasn't nudging his thigh.

"You're just loving this, aren't you," said Lestrade, caught between resignation, lust and amusement.

"What a ridiculous question. Of course I am."

"Riding a bike," scoffed Lestrade, just before his breath caught as Mycroft wrapped a hand around his prick and applied the perfect amount of friction.

Just as Lestrade was about to go with the flow, he caught Mycroft's wrist.

"Gregory?"

"I've just realised. We need condoms. I should get tested. While I was monogamous..." Lestrade stopped. He didn't want to discuss the failure of his marriage, particularly with Mycroft.

Mycroft's expression had already gentled. "I understand. And yes, you should. I am required to have a full medical every three months."

"Strewth!"

"My feelings exactly," said Mycroft wryly. "I can provide verification - "

"Don't be a tosser," dismissed Lestrade.

"Gregory..."

"You mean I can't trust you about something so important?"

Mycroft's expression confirmed he had won that point.

"I still have some condoms. Somewhere." Ridiculously afraid that Mycroft was going to change his mind again, Lestrade left the bed. Muttering feverishly to himself, he began to search the inside pockets of his jackets and in the very last one produced two with a crow of triumph.

"Use by - Damn, the print's small," he complained, moving to stand beside the bedside lamp.

"I'm not wearing my spectacles," said Mycroft, who was looking both relaxed and increasingly amused. Gratifyingly, he hadn't lost his erection.

"The date's fine," said Lestrade with relief. He got back on the bed and shifted next to Mycroft as if they had been doing this all their lives.

He fumbled unfastening the wrapping because his fingers were shaking. Finally losing patience, he tore it open with his teeth, grimacing at the taste of latex. Then he realised he had bitten into the condom. He looked up in time to see Mycroft sucking in his cheeks in an effort not to laugh and groaned, even as he felt his face heat.

"What the hell am I doing?" Lestrade muttered. "I'm forty two years old and I'm behaving as if..."

"I'm in favour of enthusiasm," Mycroft offered. "But by your own admission you're out of practice. I'm thirty seven and have been a practising homosexual for twenty years."

"And practice makes perfect?" said Lestrade, relaxing a little.

"I'm afraid I can't offer perfection. We have all night."

"Are you always this patient?"

"Only when it's something I want."

And once again Lestrade experienced the heady sensation of having Mycroft's entire attention. He felt himself twitch, even though Mycroft hadn't touched him. "Oh," he said coherently.

Unable to resist any more, Mycroft kissed Lestrade long and slow, ceding control without a thought as he felt the press and slide of Gregory's tongue against his, the callused hand stroking him.

Accustomed to micro-managing every aspect of his life, Mycroft accepted that wasn't an option where Gregory was concerned. Too late to worry about it now, he thought hazily as he found himself settled against the mattress. Mycroft couldn't help wishing he hadn't put on nine pounds since he had seen Gregory last.

The thought had little chance to fester because Lestrade was quite clearly enjoying mapping out the body spread before him.

His tongue teasing the intricacies of Mycroft's navel with pleasing results, Lestrade paused to lean over his supine captive.

"As it's your birthday, you should get to choose," he said.

"Choose what?" asked Mycroft, whose ability for coherent thought was compromised by the amount of blood which had moved south.

"What we do."

"Anything," said Mycroft, with heroic self-sacrifice, giving up any pretence of control without a qualm. Which he would worry about later.

"Blow-job then."

Lestrade took care in opening the second condom, intending to slide it onto Mycroft's erection.

After nearly a minute Mycroft was still hard, while Lestrade was pink-cheeked with embarrassed frustration. It didn't help when he realised Mycroft was struggling not to laugh again. Not the reaction he'd been hoping for.

"I can't understand it. I don't have a problem getting one on me. It must be the different angle," said Lestrade defensively.

Propped up on his elbows, the better to enjoy Gregory's struggles, Mycroft resigned himself to a further delay and relieved Lestrade of the condom. "When was the last time you used one on another man?"

"Fifteen years. But as you said, it's like riding a bike."

"I'm not always right."

Lestrade's eyes widen extravagantly. "Can I have that engraved on something? You'd best put it on.

"I meant on you," he added, as he was swiftly and expertly encased in latex.

Mycroft felt grateful for a skill honed by years of practice, even if he was accustomed to receiving rather than giving blow-jobs. He saw no reason to tell Gregory as much.

"Damn, the wretched thing's torn," he realised, easing Lestrade free again with the minimum of discomfort or fuss.

"Well, that's that then," said Lestrade, trying to sound philosophical. "I'm not sure where the nearest all-night chemist is. Unless your security - ? No, I suppose it would defeat the object."

"Perhaps you're not ready for this yet," suggested Mycroft quietly, stroking Lestrade's side.

"Any readier and I'll spontaneously combust."

"Ah, well, we can't have that. There are other ways. Sorry," Mycroft added immediately. "I didn't intend to sound condescending."

"We're doing really well so far, aren't we," said Lestrade with gloom.

"I've known worse."

"Me, too."

Gregory's smile was a heady thing. "I've done enough planning today, let's just go with the flow," said Mycroft, before he found himself being reeled in as Gregory began to kiss him with increasing urgency, hands splayed possessively across his backside.

The bedding slipped unnoticed to the floor as Lestrade eased his leg between Mycroft's thighs, in search of the erection that was making his mouth water. Mycroft's hands settled over his arse, thumbs stroking as they found a way of fitting together. Lestrade had forgotten the simple pleasure of old-fashioned dry-humping - frottage never sounded so sexy - angling erection to erection, head bumping head, the compulsion to push against and move into, the flex of Mycroft's backside under his hands. Thought blurred, raw want stealing away everything but the need to climax. With Mycroft.

Lestrade came with a soft grunt into the curve of Mycroft's neck, sucking in the scent of him, before he mumbled encouragement as he felt Mycroft's balls draw up, warmth splattering against him. 

They remained in a sticky tangle until their breathing slowed, before easing apart onto their backs.

Lestrade kept quiet in case he said anything inappropriate like 'Stay forever.'

He felt Mycroft leave the bed and sat up the better to watch the flex of Mycroft's arse as he strolled into the bathroom, before he thought to follow him.

"Shower, just what we need," he said, leaning past Mycroft to flick on the water.

"Together?"

"Not if you'd rather be alone."

Mycroft decided that tact didn't count as a lie. "No, it's...fine," he said without conviction because this was just the kind of intimacy he had hoped to avoid.

But standing under the powerful jets of water, his hands slippery with shower gel as they slid down Gregory's glorious backside, Mycroft was prepared to concede that there were compensations. 

Brown hair slicked to his skull and torso, Lestrade gave him a smile of uncomplicated happiness.

Without thinking, Mycroft returned it. The day might not have started well but it had turned into the best birthday of his life. Admittedly, it didn't have much competition but he was prepared to take his good omens where he could find them.

 

It was only when they were both more or less dry that Lestrade realised that Mycroft wasn't proposing to go back to bed.

"Do you have to work?"

"No."

"Then where are you going?"

Mycroft hovered in the doorway. "I thought I would sleep on the sofa."

"Why?" asked Lestrade blankly.

Because there was no option, Mycroft resorted to the truth - although why he had been besotted enough to make that stupid promise... "I don't - That is, I'm not accustomed to sleeping with anyone."

Busy remaking the bed, Lestrade paused. "Not ever?"

"Sherlock when he was five. No one in the sexual sense."

It was the loneliest thing Lestrade had ever heard and he lost all desire to smile. "Fair enough. But there's no need to rush off," he said, as he punched up the pillows and made himself comfortable on his side of the bed. "Get in before you get chilly. Just for a chat."

"Gregory..."

"What can it hurt?"

Mycroft recalled the last time he had confidently expected to share a lover's bed. Perhaps he had over-reacted, wanting to ensure he never risked such a brutal crushing of his unrealistic expectations.

"Of course," he said coolly. He slid back into bed, his would be casual manner betrayed by the hand clenched over the top of the duvet.

Lestrade switched off the light, which immediately made the space they shared seem all the more intimate.

"If you don't sleep with people, what did you do with your sexual partners?" Lestrade asked.

"There are no bodies buried in the garden," Mycroft promised him. "I used to organise a car to take them home."

"Ah," said Lestrade, in a strangled voice. "And no one ever socked you?"

"Certainly not. It was all about the sex, not a relationship."

"Yeah?"

"I warned you I was emotionally inept."

Lestrade eased a little closer, heartened when Mycroft made no attempt to retreat. "I haven't forgotten. I thought you were being modest."

"Not a trait the Holmes brothers are known for," said Mycroft dryly. It was odd how much better Gregory's cheap shower gel smelled when it was on him, he mused.

"If you just want sex it's the perfect solution," said Lestrade, his heart twisting at the loneliness of it.

"It suits me," said Mycroft stiffly.

"Yeah? Well, how about trying something new tonight? And if you really can't sleep next to me, you can move on to the sofa."

"You would allow a guest to sleep on the sofa while you retain the bed - which, incidently, is very comfortable?"

Encouraged by that flippancy, Lestrade eased closer still, until their bodies were brushing. "You bet. And I know it is, that's why I choose this mattress."

"It's very dark in here," said Mycroft.

"You're afraid of the dark?"

"Don't be absurd. It's just unusual in London, where there always seems to be light from one source or another."

"In this case from the security lights of the house that backs on to my garden. It's like a bloody searchlight. So I invested in blackout blinds rather than go insane from a lack of sleep."

Mycroft saw no need to confess who had ordered the installation of said lights - and the sensors, which Gregory clearly hadn't noticed. But he would see if the brilliance of the light could be reduced a little.

Aware of Mycroft beside him, rigid as a day old corpse, Lestrade gave a faint sigh of defeat. "I'm making you uneasy."

"What makes you say that?" 

"I'm a detective."

"Ah."

"Fine, _I'll_ take the sofa." It was only when disappointment surged through him that Lestrade realised how much he had hoped - expected - that Mycroft would fall into his arms. Which was pathetic by anyone's standards.

"I'm the one who should leave," said Mycroft. "I did warn you," he added with a trace of righteousness.

He surprised a snort of amusement out of Lestrade.

"You definitely understated it," he said unsteadily.

"And now you're laughing at me," said Mycroft, resigned. But he was smiling himself.

"Only a little," said Lestrade, offering a comforting rub.

"It's absurd. I know it is."

"Life is, most of the time. Sex in particular. Especially at the beginning of a relationship. Unless this is just a one-off for you?" Lestrade hoped he sounded more casual than he felt.

"No," said Mycroft without hesitation or equivocation.

"Excellent. Have you got your panic button and gun?"

A faint huff of amusement escaped Mycroft. "Tempted to use it on me? They're under the bed."

"Don't tread on the panic button. I don't want to wake up and find David staring at us from the foot of the bed. I gave him my spare key," Lestrade added.

Mycroft moved a little, so he could nuzzle Lestrade's shoulder. By this time Gregory was plastered against his side, one arm over his middle. 

"Okay?" asked Lestrade, managing to sound both sleepy and welcoming.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to try sleeping with you," allowed Mycroft.

"That's the spirit," said Lestrade, who wasn't in a serious mood. "So, if you don't sleep with lovers, I presume the post-coital chat's on the short side."

"There's a lot to be said for silence," said Mycroft pointedly, but the amusement in his voice betrayed him. "And if you ask me what my star sign is, I will use my gun."

"It's Scorpio."

"How - ? Sherlock, I suppose."

"Who needs him? Today's your birthday, 9th November. Which means you're a Scorpio. What car do you drive?"

"You're still mourning that damn Aston Martin, aren't you?" said Mycroft with resignation. Without being aware of it, his body was arranging itself to accommodate their physical closeness.

" Can you drive?"

"In London I drive a taxi. The old-fashioned black cab rather than the newer model. It's anonymous, can go anywhere and the modifcations aren't immediately obvious. In the country I use a four-wheel drive. Equally anonymous. If dull."

"Sensible. So, how's the post-coital chat going so far?"

"I could just strangle you."

"With your contacts you'd probably get away with it, too. Except that Sherlock would take an interest - although only because I'm his source of interesting cases. I wonder if he would shop you?" mused Lestrade.

"With the greatest of pleasure. So I'd best let you live."

Lestrade turned his head on the pillow, making Mycroft shiver as stubble scraped over his nipple.

"Sorry," said Lestrade.

"It wasn't exactly unpleasant."

"Oh. Duly noted."

Aware of the faint slurring of Gregory's voice, Mycroft gently stroked the greying hair until he felt the damp breath gusting across his chest even out. And despite everything that had gone before it seemed the most intimate part of the evening. 

 

David woke them at five o'clock, with a suitcase of fresh clothing for Mycroft and a sharp, assessing look at Lestrade, who gave him a bland smile.

"The body's under the patio."

"Very amusing, sir."

Aware that David was trying to look as if he wasn't peering down the hall, Lestrade took pity on him.

"Just to prove it isn't, you can take the case into Mycroft. Then you can explain to him why you felt the urge to watch him shave."

"Yes, sir."

But David did just that. When he emerged five minutes later, he gave Lestrade an unmistakable look of approval before he left again.

Lestrade made tea and porridge sprinkled with raisins and was relieved that Mycroft, too, seemed to prefer a silent start to the day.

"Am I allowed to ask if you're going to be home or away?" he asked, when Mycroft was collecting up his belongings.

"No. It's home," Mycroft added, just before David rang the bell again just before six and ferried out Mycroft's luggage. 

"I'll call you, if I may," Mycroft added, before he kissed the corner of Lestrade's mouth and ran up the basement steps, looking like a man who had just enjoyed a fortnight's holiday.

 

Doubts beginning to crowd in by the time he had finished shaving, Lestrade went to answer the door again. If it was Sherlock, he would strangle him.

Mug of tea in hand, he stared at the short, plump Afro-Carribbean woman on his doorstep. It was on the early side for cold calls.

"Good morning, sir. I'm Fatima. Part of Mr Holmes security detail."

"Call me Gregory," he said, holding out his free hand.

"Yes, sir. Mr Holmes would be obliged if you would use this phone for your private calls with him."

One shoulder propped against the door jamb, Lestrade was too busy unfastening the box to notice her leave. The latest BlackBerry was already loaded with two numbers: the first was 'Secret Squirrel', the second 'Moneypenny'. 

A text message appeared.

'I loathe texting. Mycroft Holmes'

Lestrade beamed at it fondly before he began to text his reply. There was no point letting Mycroft have _everything_ his own way.

 

END

To be followed by Part 4 _The Dating Game_


End file.
